


face painting

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2019-01-19 19:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12416166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: Len's been indulging the whims of one of the Enterprise's young passengers all day; Spock joins him for a few minutes.





	face painting

“Doctor McCoy,” Spock greets. There’s no particular inflection to his voice, but Len pretends that he sounds both confused and exasperated.

“Mr. Spock,” he answers cheerfully, his hands perfectly steady as he brushes the finishing touches on the elaborate butterfly on the young boy’s cheek. “This--” he leans back to survey his handiwork, giving his patient a quick wink as he goes-- “is M’tyne."

“I have familiarized myself with the passenger roster, Doctor.”

“Of course he has,” Len whispers teasingly- well aware Spock can still hear him- and rolls his eyes with a certain theatric flair. He’s rewarded with a tiny, tentative little giggle and tosses a self-satisfied smile back over his shoulder.

Spock tilts his head slightly in response, his gaze going soft around the edges as he moves across the room towards them.

With the ease of long practice, Len ignores the heart palpitations that micro-expression gives him. “M’tyne an’ I decided the medbay needed a little more color,” he explains. “He’s been givin’ me advice on what to paint for each nurse. Chris got--”

“A dragon,” Spock interjects, coming to parade rest next to Len’s stool (a piece of furniture painstakingly scrounged up to give him the perfect height for facepainting as his victim sat on the edge of a biobed). After a beat of silence, he adds, with the thinnest thread of amusement, “A highly logical choice for Nurse Chapel.”

M’tyne shifts slightly nervously, eyeing Spock with a child’s flighty trepidation, and so Len sets his paintbrush aside to lean into Spock’s side. Spock stiffens ever-so-slightly in surprise, but M’tyne- whose culture takes touch as a sign of implicit trust- visibly relaxes.

“'Logical’ is high praise from him,” Len promises, after a beat of distraction. Spock’s warmth radiates temptingly through the layers of fabric between them; Len indulges himself in another ten seconds of contact before he leans away, reaching once more for the paintbrush.

“I notice you do not have a creature depicted on your own cheek, Doctor.”

It’s not a question, since Spock is _clearly_ above investment in trivial human past times like face painting, but it does imply one. Len feels a fond grin twitch at the corner of his lips as he offers, “I’m not quite a talented enough artist t’get away with the whole ‘paint it based on the reflection in a mirror’ schtick.”

M’tyne huffs petulantly, picking at the sheets on his biobed with one hand. “I picked a lion,” he informs Spock, though the translator garbles the word; whatever animal he’s referring to, a lion is simply the closest approximation on Earth. His gaze flicks over Spock and then back to his knees. “Crane,” he adds quietly. “You get a crane.”

Len raises an eyebrow in consideration. “I can do a crane.”

“And I ‘can do’ a lion,” Spock tells them, matching Len’s eyebrow with his own. There’s a sparkle of something almost like mischief in his dark eyes as he holds his hand out, palm flat, in silent request for the paintbrush.

“Whoever said Vulcans don’t have a sense of humor was full of it,” Len mutters, subsuming his (lovestruck) grin with his normal gruff bluster. He doesn’t so much give the brush over as slap it into Spock’s hand like a challenge, jutting his jaw out stubbornly.

That sparkle of mischief flares brighter, long fingers brushing his palm as they curl over the handle. “On a multitude of occasions, Doctor, that person has been you,” Spock points out. “I have personally been privy to precisely fifty-four such instances and calculate the odds of your expressing a similar opinion outside of my presence as being higher than--”

Spock allows himself to be interrupted by Len’s crotchety harrumph and over-the-top eye roll; M’tyne giggles again, this time with a bit more vigor, and sets his short, chubby legs to swinging where they dangle over the edge of the biobed.

(Can Spock feel the giddy appreciation for his help in indulging M’tyne’s whims that Len’s trying to project? He’s never been certain of the proximity necessary for that Vulcan telepathy to be effective.)

“What color lion, m’boy?” Len asks jovially and presents his young patient with the available paints by means of a dramatic flourish.

M’tyne doesn’t even have to look, immediately blurting out, “Purple.”

Spock opens his mouth, but before he can espouse the illogicality of the color choice, Len elbows him savagely in the side. “One purple lion, if you please, Mr. Spock. And then on your cheek I’ll paint a...” he trails off, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Yellow,” M’tyne declares, after a moment of deliberation.

“A yellow crane,” Len echoes and flashes Spock an impish grin. He doesn’t stop to wait for a response but instead turns to M’tyne, pulling on his best serious face. “Would you like to be Mr. Spock’s assistant?”

M’tyne nods furiously, shoving forward greedy fingers, and Len tuts. “You’ll have to hold it very steady,” he warns.

“Doctor McCoyyyyyyy,” M’tyne whines, and then- with the self-awareness of a five-year-old who understands exactly how cute he is- juts his lower lip forward and opens his eyes wide. “I can do it, I promise,” he whispers confidentially.

(At least, Len’s pretty sure it was supposed to be a whisper.)

“Hmmmmm, well,” Len drawls, drumming his fingers on his chin. “I suppose, since you promised...” he holds out the palette of paints to M’tyne, who sits up very, very straight and accepts it with all the solemn dignity he can summon into his three-foot frame.

Len bites back a grin and rises to his feet, stretching his back with an audible _crack_. “Scooch up,” he orders, and M’tyne shuffles over a foot or so, giving Len just enough room to perch next to him.

Spock looks at him, a question in the blink of his eyes; Len raises an eyebrow in return. “Unless you want to spend the next ten minutes bent over at the waist, or else try and find a second stool,” he drawls lazily.

Spock engages the auto-clean function on the brush with a flick of his thumb. “The biobed will function adequately for these purposes,” he agrees, voice deceptively neutral for the way he moves to stand just-shy of between Len’s slightly open knees.

He inspects the bristles for any remaining pigments, and then he nods with satisfaction and reaches out. Len’s focus narrows to the delicate press of long fingers against his chin as his face is tilted to the perfect angle, to the brush of Spock’s hip against his knee when he leans to the side to dip the brush into the paint. He sucks in a shuddering breath, and with a blink the world comes back into existence.

Spock has that self-satisfied smirk hovering in the corners of lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Which he must, of course he must.

Len huffs just before Spock can set paint to skin, earning himself an admonishing glance, and raises his gaze from Spock to the ceiling. The paint is cold, Spock’s strokes precise and- he’s sure- elegant. He can feel the intensity of Spock’s gaze, every ounce of his considerable well of concentration focused on the strokes of the brush, and Len suppresses a shiver.

Spock reaches over, dabbing the brush in the paint, and informs M’tyne gently, “You are a most competent assistant.”

Len cuts his eyes to the side, catching the way the boy swells with pride, puffing out his chest beneath the thin medbay robe. “Thank you, Mr. Commander Spock,” he enunciates carefully.

“It is only logical to state the truth, M’tyne; your thanks are unnecessary.” Spock hasn’t even finished speaking before he’s receiving a sharp kick to the shin, and he sighs. “However, within both yours and Doctor McCoy’s cultures, I believe the appropriate response is ‘you are welcome.’“

“You’re learning, Mr. Spock,” Len says with a grin, and it’s meant to be teasing--he’s unfortunately certain, from the smug look in Spock’s eye, that it comes out more fond than anything else.

Spock places three fingers under Len’s chin, asserting a gentle pressure upwards. Admonishingly, “Please refrain from speaking until I am finished, Doctor.”

Len acquiesces, but not without an eyeroll. He focuses his gaze on the ceiling once more, fingers drumming on the edge of the biobed, and lets the cadence of Spock and M’tyne’s continuing conversation- regarding M’tyne’s subjects of interest in school, ground Len has long since covered with the boy- wash over him.

Spock isn’t per se _good_ with kids; they make him uncomfortable, simply because he hasn’t had much experience with them since he was one--and even at that, Vulcan children are a far different beast from those of other species. He does, however, treat them with the same calm, solemn respect with which he treats adults, and kids pick up on that. They don’t like to be condescended to, and Spock’s condescension is kept in reserve for Len.

The rest, well. Spock does his best to follow Len’s lead, and Spock’s best is rarely disappointing.

The warmth of Spock’s touch retreats, and Len blinks his way back to reality. “Your lion is complete, Doctor McCoy,” he’s informed lightly, the buzz of the brush’s autoclean function curling beneath the words.

Len shifts on the bed to face M’tyne, drawing one leg under himself and resting the other foot on the ground in between Spock’s. Turning his head to show off his cheek, he asks lightly, “How’s it look?”

M’tyne kicks his legs, giggling. The palette of paints teeters dangerously in his grip as he leans over to prod at Len’s cheek, but Spock carefully removes it from his hands before it can fall. “Ms. Christine’s turned out the best of them all,” he declares, “but I _guess_ this one is okay.”

“Well.” Len rubs his hands together, looking back at Spock. “Your turn, then, eh? Hop up on--”

The comm buzzes. “ _Bridge to Mr. Spock.”_

Spock passes off the brush to Len, adjusts his blue shirt, and steps over to the wall panel. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

_”The Captain and Mr. Scott need your input on the protocols we’ll be following when we reach the settlement,”_ Uhura tells him, a thread of apology in her voice.

“Acknowledged. Inform them I am on my way to the Captain’s ready room.”

“ _Aye, sir. Bridge out.”_

“Another time, then,” Len says, smiling, before Spock can apologize. He slides off the biobed and spins the brush between his fingers as he moves to Spock’s side. “I won’t be in tonight,” he says softly, voice pitched low enough that M’tyne won’t be able to hear him. “I could leave him with the night staff, but he was awfully skittish when they first brought him in and--”

“I understand, Doctor,” Spock murmurs back, and two finger brush over the inside of Len’s wrist before he steps away. Len catches his hand as it passes, squeezing ever so briefly.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Spock adds, turning his attention over Len’s shoulder and nodding to M’tyne. He receives a sloppy child’s salute in response.

Len doesn’t bother to bite back his lovestruck grin this time, taking his place back on his stool and setting the brush aside. “Have you ever played Go Fish, m’boy?” he asks, rustling around in the bedside table. “No? Alright, well the rules go like this...”


End file.
